The Road to Redemption
by Missekatten
Summary: Though it feels like all is lost already, when Charles must ally himself with Erik to save the future, it becomes painfully apparent that there are still things he stands to lose. And that there are more ways than one to atone for one's sins.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone!**

**About a year ago, I published the fan fiction _The Road to Salvation_, picturing the events of _X-Men: First Class_ from Erik's point-of-view. I received some amazing reviews and feedback on the story, and with _Days of Future Past_ coming up, it felt only natural to do a follow-up. As it happened, it took a bit longer than I'd originally thought, but here it is at long last: _The Road to Redemption_.**

**Thank you all for waiting so patiently, and I really, really hope you enjoy it. Also feel free to leave a review, as those tend to make my day awesome!**

* * *

Out of all the minds he can no longer shut out, there is one which shines brighter than any other. A mind impossible to ignore, simply because it is not there.

_Erik_ is not there.

Where his mind should be, a clear, shimmering gem among dull pebbles, there is only a void, and while there is nothing Charles wants less than to ever enter Erik's mind again, still there is no mind he would rather feel, touch and know once again.

They did know each other, once. For a short while, ridiculously short, in fact, compared to the impact that time has had on both of their lives, they knew each other more fully, more intimately, than Charles has ever known anyone.

To Erik, Charles was not a threat or an enemy, and to Charles, Erik was not someone who needed protection. They were equals, each capable of standing on his own two feet and yet in appreciation of each other's abilities, and they became friends, brothers: an experience both novel and intoxicating to them both.

When he first picked up on Erik's feelings toward him, Charles had decidedly turned his head to other matters. There were thoughts you could listen in on, mundane everyday-thoughts that everyone had, but then there were thoughts that should always be absolutely private. Erik's feelings constituted such a forbidden territory, and Charles tried to stay out of there.

Not that he was always successful.

For one thing, Charles was becoming increasingly accustomed to Erik's mind. With every thought or memory shared between them, it became easier for Charles to pick up even on those thoughts he was not consciously looking for. The other thing was that he had trouble shutting Erik out in the first place.

Erik was a very, very honest man. His mind was never undecided, always clear and focused, and when he spoke, those words matched his thoughts to a fault. That fault was Charles. Erik kept those thoughts under a tight lid, never voiced them or acted on them, and the difference was so stark that Charles noticed them even more because of it.

At first, Charles had not thought himself to return those feelings – had not, in fact – but found, even so, that he did.

It was on their flying back from Russia, when Erik had given him a refuge from his churning thoughts by offering him to step into Erik's mind instead. It was not the first time Charles had been invited to do so, but this time was different – no memories of war, pain or loss, but instead a soothing lull of vibrating, humming machinery, a sensation of metal as Charles had never experienced it before. As he fell asleep, Charles had also, inadvertently, fallen in love.

There had been no time though.

No time to confront Erik or even to speak his own mind on the matter, not until it was too late to act on it. Even then, he had not managed to say very much at all: all his usual eloquence lost in anger, frustration and fear.

Sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, Charles could still feel the ghost of Erik's mouth on his, the insatiable hunger ravaging his lips and Erik's body pressing down on him, pushing him down into the mattress as their desires melded. He had wanted to surrender then, to give himself up to Erik's mouth and hands and need, but some scholarly part of his mind had made him sit up and walk away. _Tomorrow_, he had thought, _tomorrow, when this is all over, we will have time_.

Only when tomorrow came, Erik had betrayed him in more ways than one, and then vanished into thin air, while Charles lay on the ground feeling nothing below his waist and everything above it.

And then he had lost his mind.

Looking back, Charles could see how anyone would have reacted in the same way. To say that he had been caught between a rock and a hard place was a gross understatement: he had been caught between excruciating physical pain and paradoxically the numbness of being unable to feel or move the lower half of his body, waking every night from dreams of walking, running, moving and still being unable to even leave the bed to rinse his face from the cold sweat. No less crippling was the pain of loss, the knowledge that Raven and Erik were gone, gone together, and that there would be no late night talks with them, no watching TV with her or chess games with him. And then there was the doubt, ever gnawing at his mind – maybe Erik had been right. Maybe, if only Charles had stopped to consider all things thoroughly, things would never have turned out the way they did. Maybe he could have prevented it, stopped the whole mess before it ever began. Maybe then, if only he had done those things, he would not be where he is now, trapped in his broken body and erratic mind, bitter and alone.

They are gone now, all but Hank. Fighting someone else's war or searching for their place in the world, but gone all the same. He had thought the school would occupy him, take his mind off the things he had lost. Had thought it would save him as he worked to save others from experiencing the hurt and pain that he himself had never known growing up, but that he had seen and felt through Erik's mind. Now here he is, wounded in more ways than one by pains both real and imagined.

Hank's modified serum is a relief, in every sense of the word. With it, his mind no longer reaches out to the pain of others and when there is no mind besides his own, he is not reminded of those that should be there but are not. When everything is void, their absence is less noticeable, but no easier to endure.

There is no one for him to save, and no one to save him either – and what is there to save anyway?

He roams the halls of the house like a restless ghost, but is unable to enjoy the use of his legs. The world is at his feet, but he needs to stay here, where Hank can supply him with daily injections concocted in the newly erected state of the art laboratory, and besides, there is nowhere he would like to go. Sometimes he dares to go upstairs, to Raven's room, where he looks at her photo albums (silly, because while it shows her as he always knew her, it is not who she is), her trinkets and memorabilia, and wonders where she is and what she is doing and whether he will ever see her again. Once, twice, he enters the room Erik used during that short week so very long ago, sits down on the bed and cries.

Most of the time, he is in his study. Not reading, writing, studying or even really thinking, just sitting, being. Enduring, as hours, days, months and eventually years, pass.


	2. Chapter 2

"…_rof…or?_"

He looks up, not really _from_ anything, only coming back to the sad, dusty now in which he seems constantly trapped.

"Professor?!"

It is not Hank's voice calling him, Hank never calls him _professor_ anymore and never shouts – always very compliant and considerate and quiet, Hank is. No, this voice is unknown. It is also demanding, booming throughout the empty house. Charles closes his eyes – another ten, fifteen seconds and Hank will take care of the unwanted guest.

"PROFESSOR!"

This time, the shout is followed by the unmistakable sound of an animalistic roar and then things breaking, wood and porcelain, amidst more shouts and roars. It has been many years, but Charles recognizes these sounds instantly: his home is being wrecked.

With a groan he gets up from his armchair and proceeds out into the hallway. A side table lies topsy-turvy on the floor, one of its legs broken and the vase once placed on it now in pieces on the parquet. The commotion has not subsided yet though, crashing sounds still echo through the halls, so Charles continues to the grand staircase.

"Hank?" he asks, walking down the wooden steps, noticing the broken steps on the stair opposite him. "What's going on here?"

Hank is swinging wildly from the chandelier, growling, but stops at Charles' voice. Below him, sprawled on the table, lies a man Charles does not recognize.

"Professor?" the stranger asks, sounding surprised. He does not seem particularly disturbed by the fact that a snarling blue-furred beast-man is hovering over him, which is Charles' strongest clue that he must be a mutant as well – ordinary humans are normally less understanding about Hank's appearance.

"Please don't call me that" Charles replies as he continues down the stairs.

"What, you know this guy?" Hank sounds out of breath.

"He looks… slightly familiar" Charles replies, not really caring whether he does know the man or not. It is not so much a matter of who he is, only of who he is not. "Get off the bloody chandelier, Hank."

Hank, always the obedient one, vaults down onto the floor a few feet away from the table. The sudden motion keeps the chandelier swinging on its chain, but at least there is no risk of it falling down from the ceiling now.

"You can walk" the stranger says, disbelief evident in both his voice and his face.

"You're a perceptive one" Charles says, coming down a few more steps.

"I thought Erik-"

Charles cuts him right off, not even really hearing the other man's words before speaking.

"Which is why it's slightly perplexing that you managed to miss our sign on the way in. This is private property, my friend, I'm going to have to ask… him," indicating Hank, "to ask you to leave."

He has seated himself on the stair – hell, he has no energy for anything nowadays – and hopes that whoever this is, he will catch on and get out of here. He wants this disturbance over with and done – his tumbler is empty, his head hurts like hell and the way Hank looks at him, with that mixture of concern and deprecation does nothing to ease his mind. Unfortunately, the stranger does not seem to be heading off anytime soon. He has risen from the table and sighs, his face… apologetic? What the-

"Well, I'm afraid I can't do that, 'cause, uh… 'cause I was sent here for you."

"Well, tell whoever it was that sent you that I'm… busy" Charles says, not entirely pleased with the word. Even so, _busy_ is quite a good euphemism for _absolutely fucking lethargic_. Hank scoffs at this; the stranger, on the other hand, almost chuckles.

"That's gonna be a little tricky" he says, "because the person who sent me… was you."

"What?"

While he might not entirely in his right mind, Charles has a hard time imagining himself having told anyone to do anything, aside from Hank, for the last… _eight?_ years. Even then he would probably have remembered telling some random mutant stranger to come and get him, from his own house, for no apparent reason at all. And for all the things that his mind is no longer capable of, his memory, at least, is in perfect condition – sad to say.

"About fifty years from now" the stranger continues, unabatedly.

"Fifty years from now, like in the future fifty years from now?"

"Yeah."

"I sent you from the future?"

"Yeah."

It is obvious from the man's voice that he knows how absolutely ridiculous this notion is, and that makes Charles uncomfortable. Hank simply scoffs.

"Piss off" Charles says – and is hardly surprised when this invective proves perfectly ineffective.

"If you had your powers" the stranger says, "you'd know I was telling the truth."

Cold shivers race up Charles' spine.

"How do you know I don't have my…?" His voice fails him and he swallows, trying to reestablish some mental control. "Who are you?"

"I told you."

"Are you CIA?"

"No."

"You were watching me?"

"I know you, Charles" the man says, moving towards him. "We've been friends for years."

This conversation is beyond unsettling, and the feeling does not diminish as the man continues.

"I know your powers came when you were nine. I know you thought you were going crazy when this started, all the-" he gestures to his temple, a motion that sends echoes of memories through Charles' mind. He could always enhance his control by focusing on that area of his brain, could almost feel his mind working beneath his fingertips whenever he touched his temples – this man has seen him use his powers. "-voices in your head. And it wasn't until you were twelve that you realized all the voices were in everyone else's head. Do you want me to go on?"

_No. _Charles shakes his head ever so slightly.

"I never told anyone that."

"Not yet, no, but… you will."

"Alright" Charles admits, still disconcerted, "you've peaked my interest. What do you want?"

It always comes down to that, right? People always want something, and this man is hardly any different. What bothers Charles though, is that he seems sincere. Calm and confident, and thoroughly genuine, he almost makes Charles want to believe that what he says might be for real.

"We have to stop Raven" the man answers. "I need your help. We need your help."

He can feel his own body trembling. He cannot believe that the man could possibly be telling the truth, and yet, he cannot believe that it is not true, either. But none of that matters, because he cannot help. Not this man, not anyone else – not even himself.

"I think I'd like to wake up now" he says, rising unsteadily to his feet. It is not the alcohol in his blood affecting his balance though, and not a lack of Hank's serum either. Whoever this man is, he has shaken Charles to his core by invoking names not spoken out loud in many, many years._ Raven_. And then, forever tied to her name, _Erik. _Those two names go together in his mind like a heart-beat: a double _thump_ from two inseparable lumps of longing.

The stranger says nothing to stop him and neither does Hank: the two of them simply let him walk into the small and dusty study without another word.

Or, not entirely.

"What does she have to do with this?" Hank says, his voice low and carefully modulated. Still, some of his pain and confusion breaks through, even to Charles – another reminder of how fucked up everything is and has been for far too long.

"She is about to kill a man, a scientist named Trask, and those actions will result in the annihilation of all mutants fifty years from now."

Against his will, Charles stops and sighs.

"Alright" he says, without turning to look at the two men in the hallway, "come on in, and start from the beginning."


	3. Chapter 3

It is an extraordinary story, to say the very least, and almost impossible to grasp. The mere thought that someone can actually travel through time is mind-blowing enough as it is, without trying to accept the fact that someone might have already done it and that he expects to be able to change things which have, at least to Charles and Hank, yet to happen. And that someone is sitting in Charles's study.

"So, you're saying that they took Raven's power and, what? They… weaponized it?" he asks as he fills his tumbler witch whisky, still unable to wrap his mind about the things that Logan has spent a good ten, fifteen minutes trying to explain.

"Yep."

"She is unique" Hank fills in with a half shrug, returned now to his human appearance. He seems a bit too cool with Logan's story, at least to Charles, but he is right.

"Yeah, she is, Hank" Charles agrees, before heading for the sofa.

"In the beginning" Logan continues, "the sentinels were just targeting mutants. Then they began to identify the genetics in non-mutants, who would eventually have mutant children, and grand-children. Many of the humans tried to help us, but… it was a slaughter."

_Identification, that's how it starts. And ends with being rounded up, experimented on, eliminated._

They are Erik's words, spoken many long years ago, yet Charles remembers them with crystal clarity. If Logan is for real, if he is telling the truth, then Erik was right. Will be right.

"…leaving only the worst of humanity in charge…"

Charles pushes away the thought. He refuses to believe that this is what their future looks like: it goes against everything he is and everything he has ever believed in. And yet the words ring true. Logan's words, from a future Charles cannot even imagine, and behind them, Erik's words, from a past Charles can never forget.

"I've been in a lot of wars… but I've never seen anything like this. And all starts with her."

_Her_. _Raven_.

"Let's just say that for the sake of… the sake," damn, his head is a mess, "that- that I choose to believe you, that I choose to help you… Raven won't listen to me. Her heart and soul belong to someone else now."

It has been more than ten years. Ten bloody years since he encouraged her to go with Erik and saw her disappear from the sandy beach in a puff of red smoke, and in all this time there has been no word from her. Not a phone call, not a letter or even a stupid postcard – nothing. Once, after Erik… For a time, he had told himself that she might come back home again. After all, without Erik, what was there for her to do, all by herself in the world?

He had been wrong of course, as so many times before whenever she was concerned. She had left him, and left for good. She would never come home again.

Logan does not seem either surprised or particularly disturbed by this news.

"I know" he says and rises from his chair, circles it so that he can look Charles straight in the eyes as he continues: "that's why we're gonna need Magneto too."

"Erik?" Hank asks, as if it were unclear who Logan was referring to, and in spite of it all, Charles cannot suppress the laughter rising in his throat. He actually calls himself that? Even fifty years into the future, he still hangs on to that silly nickname Raven made up for him? And they _need_ him?

"You do know where he is?"

Hank is perhaps not quite as amused as Charles is right now, and perhaps that is a good thing, because this is simply too much. It is not funny, not at all, and still he laughs, rising from the sofa and moving towards Logan, feeling all the while like breaking down to cry. So he pushes the laughter down, turns it into something else – and after ten years, there is plenty of else.

"He's where he belongs" he says and stalks off, out of the study.

"That's it, you're just gonna walk out?"

"Oh, top marks! Like I said, you are perceptive."

Logan can be offended all he wants, Charles has entertained him for long enough and it has been anything but entertaining. His headache has gotten worse, and no wonder, with the ghosts of the past raised to the presence of his mind like that. _Ah, to sleep, perchance to dream_ – or better yet, not to dream at all.

Unfortunately though, Logan does not give up that easily.

"The professor I know wouldn't turn his back on someone who had lost their path. Especially someone he loved."

Charles stops in his track.

Out of all the things Logan has said so far, many could be plain guesswork, others are unnerving but this… this makes his mind shudder and backfire. His body moves of its own accord as he is desperately trying to find something to say, something that neither confirms nor denies and might at the same time get Logan off his back.

He finds it.

"You know, I think I do remember you now. Yeah. We came to you a long time ago, seeking your help. And I'm gonna say to you what you said to us then."

He is face to face with Logan now and it is all he can do to keep himself together enough to make the words come out the right way.

"Fuck off!"

The reaction is instantaneous.

"Listen to me, you little shit!" Logan says, grabbing at his shirt and nearly lifting him off the floor. "I've come a long way and watched a lot of people die. Good people, friends. If you're gonna wallow in self-pity and do nothing, then you're gonna watch the same thing, do you understand?"

For a few long moments, their eyes meet, and Charles is almost grateful that he cannot pick up on whatever memories are playing themselves up in the other man's mind. He has enough of those on his own, and maybe this is what Logan does not understand. Good people, friends – Charles has already lost them. And he will not partake in some crazy-ass save-the-world-mission that will only make the loss even more obvious.

"We all have to die sometime" he says, and walks away.

* * *

His room is as he left it, dark and cluttered and the air filled with the smell of sweat and whisky and unwashed clothes. It reeks, much as he does, probably, and he cannot bring himself to care. This has been the state of affairs for years now and it is not likely to change.

As is his usual routine he sits down in the armchair and reaches for Hank's serum. The dark amber liquid has a slight glow to it, even in the dimness of the room, and it holds the promise of silence. He depends on that promise, from the serum and from the scotch. Maybe, if he is lucky, they will numb his mind enough to block out even his own thoughts, awakened by Logan's story.

Maybe he should stop trying to fool himself.

The serum takes effect almost immediately. It creates a sort of cotton padding around his mind, but unfortunately does nothing to stop it from running wild. He can still hear Hank and Logan talk downstairs: no words, only the soft murmur of voices traveling through the empty rooms and corridors. Empty, yes. Not as it once was, full of people and brimming with activity, minds buzzing day and night as young kids learned to control their strange but wonderful abilities, step by step, day by day.

No, the house is much like Charles is now: a ruin full of memories, held together only by Hank's kind considerations and the inability to tear itself to pieces.

How poetic.

Raven liked it here, he remembers. It is beyond him to understand what it was that brought her to this house, what made her try her luck here and not somewhere smaller, somewhere more discreet, but oh, was he glad that she did. Convincing his mother and stepfather that she should be allowed to stay had been one of his first achievements using his powers. Far from refined, heck, he had only just begun understanding what was going on with the voices he heard, he had started out by telling them that she was a friend from school. Then, that she would be staying with them during the summer break, then that she should live with them. It was not suggestion, not as he developed it over the years that followed where he made someone's mind make the connections he implied – it was simple information, reinforced once or twice every day with a hint of his powers behind it, until he was confident that it had been forged into truth.

It had been, and Raven had stayed there, with him. Through school and holidays, onto college and university, she had always been there beside him – until Erik showed up and turned everything upside down. He had been right though, as he seemed to always be, when he pointed out that Raven was no longer a little girl who needed protection.

But she had been, once. And for all the things that time changed, he still felt that same need to protect her, to make sure that no harm came to her.

And if Logan was right, she would be harmed.

"Oh _fuck_ it."


	4. Chapter 4

"I'll help you get her."

Logan and Hank both turn toward him, both with surprise written on their faces.

"Not for any of your future shite" he continues, "but for her."

"Fair enough" Logan agrees.

That is not the only thing though. There is one more thing Charles must address before he can agree to any of this madness. Not that he thinks Logan can possibly answer – still, the question must be asked.

"I tell you this: you don't know Erik. That man is a monster, a murderer. You think you can convince Raven to change, to come home? That's splendid. But what makes you think you can change him?"

Logan does not seem even slightly bothered by the question. He almost smiles.

"Because you and Erik sent me back here together."

Every possibly reply is instantly stuck in Charles' throat. _Together_. Fifty years from now – they are together? In what way, in what sense of the word? But his mouth refuses to form the words and he looks away, knowing against better judgment that the possibility of refusing to help has now been extinguished.

"Hank, would you fetch the Pentagon blueprints please?"

"Sure" Hank replies. As he disappears down the corridor, Logan gives Charles a sideways glance.

"You have the building plans for the Pentagon?" he asks, doubt evident in his voice.

"Yes, we do. What of it?"

But Logan says nothing, thankfully enough. No need then, for Charles to explain that if there was only one thing he learned from his three years as a Cub Scout, it was to be prepared, and that even if he had had no intention of breaking Erik out of prison, he wanted to know exactly what kind of prison it was. Truth be told, he had not expected the humans to be able to keep Erik imprisoned at all, but these past ten years have proved him wrong.

It is only a few minutes before Hank returns with a roll of large paper sheets under his arm and spreads them out on the table in the hallway. The faded lines are as thin as spider web on the paper, and even though Charles has not looked at them for many years now, they are still familiar to him.

"So, this is what the Pentagon looks like" Logan says, taking in the sight.

"Yes, well, more or less" Hank replies as he places a few books on the edges to weigh down the sheets.

"And what about Erik?"

"Well, the room they're holding him in was built during the Second World War, when there was a shortage of steel" Hank explains. "So the foundation is pure concrete and sand. No metal."

"He's being held a hundred floors below the most heavily guarded building on the planet" Charles elaborates, looking at the paper below his fingers. It is not drawn on the building plans, but it is there: Erik's place of residence since almost ten years.

"Why is he in there?"

Logan's question makes Charles look up, first at him but then at Hank. Hank says nothing, though of course he knows just as well as Charles does.

"What, he forgot to mention?" Charles asks, laughing. So, fifty years from now, Erik will have no trouble telling people about being imprisoned in the Pentagon, but will not tell them why? Strange, because Charles would somehow have expected him to be proud about the action and embarrassed by getting caught: not the other way around.

Hank, always an excellent assistant, fills Logan in on the truth with a murmured "JFK".

"He killed…?"

"What else explains a bullet miraculously curving through the air?" Charles asks. Even as he speaks, he can see Erik turning missiles in the air, feel the burn of a deflected bullet in his back. "Erik's always had a way with guns. Are you sure you want to carry on with this?"

He is not so sure himself.

"Well this is your plan, not mine" Logan says, and Charles snorts. It's not a plan, only bits of information and a general idea of what to consider in case of a prison break, and Hank points this out by saying:

"We don't have any resources to get us in."

"Or out" Charles adds. "It's just me and Hank."

"I know a guy." Logan does not sound very disturbed by the lack of means to achieve his end, but rather quite amused. "Yeah, he'd be a young man now, grew up outside of D.C. He could get into anywhere. I just don't know how the hell we're gonna find him."

Hank darts his eyes at Charles, like a man approaching live explosives.

"Is Cerebro out of the question?"

Charles does not even manage to reply, but breaks away from Hank's glance. Even if he wanted to, there is no way for Charles to use the machine without his powers, and he does not want to – not at all. So Hank turns back to Logan, the hint of an apology in his voice.

"We have a phonebook."

* * *

As it turns out, locating Peter Maximoff is not very difficult, and convincing him to help them even less so.

The kid is enthusiastic, to say the least, and seems to thoroughly enjoy explaining his ability to them and what he may or may not be able to do while using it. He is confident and cocky, youth incarnate, and his enthusiasm affects the rest of them as well.

"What does the cell look like?" Peter asks. "Plastic?"

"Probably the structure" Charles says, studying the blueprints for the dozenth time while Logan drives them toward the capital – or rather really the tiny county where the Pentagon is located. "But I think glass as well, thick glass, bullet-proof. You'll need something to break it with, though I've no idea what."

"Oh, that's no problem then" the kid says casually. "I can do that with my hands."

"Your hands?" Hank asks, looking up momentarily from the rectangle object in his hand that will, hopefully, work as a radio transmitter and disturb any radio signals within the Pentagon, obstructing the personnel working there from finding out about the prison break until it is too late. "How do you do that?"

"Vibrations" Charles says, his mind connecting the dots for him. "You can make the glass shatter by applying force on it, using the impact of your speed?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

Peter sounds both impressed and surprised, but Hank saves Charles from answering.

"We knew a guy once, who could do that with his voice."

"That's cool."

"Yeah."

Charles feels something stirring in his mind that he has not felt in a very long time. It is not so much eagerness about what they are about to do, but just the pleasure of being there, in the middle of it. Hearing Peter brag and see him show off his abilities makes him smile, inwardly if not always visibly. This was what he wanted to do: help kids to understand their powers and to be proud of themselves. Make sure that no mutant kids ever grew up scared or alone. This was what the school was supposed to be all about.

One by one, the loose strings are brought together and form something resembling a strategy, but there is no time to smooth down the rough edges. As Logan pulls into the parking lot and stops the car, Charles closes his eyes for a moment. He cannot hear anything, of course, no stranger's thoughts crossing through his mind: that is not why he needs a moment to breathe. No, it is simply the sheer enormity of what they are about to do – forget the future, forget Raven's part in what Logan says will come to happen and forget about all the other necessary steps to unmake that future – they are about to break Erik out of prison.

It feels as if someone has placed a cool metal clamp around his lungs, constricting his flow of oxygen.

"Are you ready for this?" Logan asks, and even though his question could be directed at all of them, Charles knows that it is meant for him. He also knows that the answer is no.

Gritting his teeth, he opens the car door and steps out onto the parking lot.

"Alright gentlemen" he says as they follow him. "You all know what to do. Try not to get caught."

Peter sniggers and disappears, Hank just nods and puts on the hat that will, hopefully, make him impossible to identify from security tapes in the very likely event that something goes wrong. Together with him and Logan, Charles heads to the public entrance. The Pentagon is enough of a tourist attraction to provide guided tours and these are regularly scheduled. _Nothing like hiding in plain sight_, Charles thinks as the guide welcomes the group of about twenty-five people, old and young, and starts the tour. _Better than air ducts at least._

"Built in nineteen-forty-three, the Pentagon is the world's largest office building, housing more than twenty-five thousand military employees, stretched over six million square feet."

That is a lot of space to cover, and a lot of people to evade on their way out. But Charles has no time to ponder any further on that line of thought, as he and Logan breaks off from Hank and the rest of the group to go down a staircase. No one but Hank seems to notice their disappearance and Charles can only pray that Hank's device will function properly and mess with the security cameras.

It seems to work, because there is no sound of alarm, no raised suspicion in the eyes of agents passing them in the corridors. Logan is quiet as they orient themselves to an elevator and then down numerous corridors. None of them has said it out loud, but Charles knows only too well that if he could access his powers, he could make sure that Hank has set off the fire alarm and that Peter is indeed on his way back up to the kitchen, with Erik. As it is, Charles can keep tabs on no one but himself and Logan, and that, he knows, is a gamble. They are betting on luck to help them, and they need a lot of luck.

As they enter the kitchen, it seems as if luck is indeed favoring them. White-dressed chefs are already abandoning their stoves and counters when Charles and Logan move in. No one is paying the slightest attention to what Charles is saying but they heed his instructions anyway, clearing out of the kitchen fast. All except for the two armed men standing guard by the elevator door.

"We are evacuating the entire floor so that we, my, um… associate and I can, um, secure the prisoner."

He does not need to see Logan's face to know that he is fucking the entire operation up.

"Who are you?" one of the guards demands, looking almost as menacing as Logan does, all squared shoulders and fists and violence just waiting to happen.

"We are… special operations. CB-FB-CI…D." Seeing as how random letters are not impressing either of the guards, Charles switches tactics. "Look, perhaps you didn't hear me when first I spoke, but it's imperative that you understand we are in complete lockdown situation. We have to get you to the third floor-"

Logan charges forward, hits the first guard with his fist and knocks the other one down with a frying pan, turns again to the first guard and incapacitates him as well before dropping the pan to the wet floor.

"Oh I'm sorry" Logan says when their eyes meet. "Were you finished?"

The water from the sprinkler system has by this time almost soaked through Charles' clothes and drops are running from his hair and down his face. Only hours ago he was at home, in the quiet normalcy of his house, nursing a tumbler of whisky – now he finds himself standing among unconscious guards in the Pentagon kitchen. Lacking words, he goes to one of the guards to search the man's belt and pockets, and finds a key there, which fits neatly into the lock by the elevator door.

"Sorry" he says then, finally finding the words and trying to get them across to Logan over the blaring sound of the alarm, "I'm just not very good with violence."

Half a second later, the elevator door opens with a ping and a whoosh, and as Charles turns around he stands face to face with Erik.

Still tall, still muscular, hair cut short and cleanly shaven – how on earth they managed to provide that without using metallic blades or scissors, Charles does not know – still causing every neuron in Charles' brain to short circuit and backfire.

"Charles?"

His fist connects with Erik's jaw with the satisfying smack of bone against bone and Erik goes down with a surprised yelp – nothing, unfortunately, against the sound of anger and pain coming out of Charles' own mouth. He near enough crashes into the wall of the elevator, cradling his hurting knuckles and sidesteps Erik as if the man would strike him in turn and they would once again wrestle on the floor. Erik does not, however, return the punch but merely rights himself and strokes his jaw with a slight grimace.

"Good to see you too, old friend" he says, looking up at Charles, and then adds: "and walking."

"No thanks to you" Charles answers, not entirely sure whether or not to throw another punch just for the satisfaction of seeing Erik fall down once more, but before he can decide, Erik is back on his feet.

"You're the last person in the world I expected to see today."

"Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to. If we're going to get you out of here, we do it my way. No killing."

The two guards Logan knocked out are bad enough, and the one duct taped to the elevator even worse. Who knows how many others Peter had to take out down below? Every man who has seen them is a threat, but that does not justify killing them – and doing so will only lead to a more vicious pursuit.

"No helmet" Erik replies with a shrug and a smile, gesturing to his head and making Charles almost want to strangle him. "I couldn't disobey you even if I wanted to."

"I'm never getting inside of that head again" Charles says, putting every ounce of anger behind the words to make sure that Erik understands the gravity of his statement. "I need your word, Erik."

One moment passes, then another, and finally Erik nods his consent. Not a moment too late, as a door breaks open and more guards enter the room, weapons drawn.

"Nobody move!" one of them yells as they all move forward, another one following up with "hold it right there!"

Charles takes a step back, then another. The guns are all plastic and probably the ammunition as well, but they will still hurt as hell and just thinking about it makes cold sweat break out on his forehead, mingling with the sprinkler water. These men are intent on hurting them and there is nothing they can do about it.

"Charles…" Erik's voice is urging him to action, but what can he do? Talk them out of shooting them? That did not go very splendidly only moments ago and this is much, much worse.

"Don't move!" the guard reinforces his command. "Hands up, or we will shoot!"

"Freeze them, Charles." Intent and almost growling.

"I can't." He can hear himself, hear the fear and desperation in his voice, and with those two words, he knows he has exposed himself. The one thing he did not want to reveal, the one thing he absolutely did not want Erik to know about, is now out in the open.

"HANDS UP!" the guard shouts again, but beside him, Charles can hear Erik take a deep breath and he realizes suddenly that which had not occurred to him before, even with Logan smashing people with a frying pan. They are in a kitchen. A kitchen full of metal.

Not only pots and pans and knives, but entire shelves, counters – even the stoves are made of metallic compounds. What must it be like, he wonders, to have been shielded from all of that for so many years and then find it suddenly at your disposal again?

As the metal begins to shudder under Erik's control, Charles realizes that he already knows the answer. The only difference is that Erik did not choose to lose his powers, but was kept by others from using them. Others, acting under orders. Others like these guards in front of them now.

_I've been at the mercy of men just following orders. Never again._

"No!"

He throws himself at Erik to break the man's concentration and in the next instant bullets plunge into the elevator behind them and the six guards fly through the air and fall down on the floor, soon followed by knives and spoons and other miscellaneous cooking equipment. On the other side of the room, casually nodding, stands Peter with a CIA cap on his head.

Without another word, Charles exits the room, leaving the others to follow.


	5. Chapter 5

Hank is waiting for them by the car and Charles can almost see all the questions rising in his throat and then sinking again at the sight of Erik. Erik, for his part, inclines his head and says how good it is to see Hank again – thankfully not adding "looking so normal" or some other clever remark – and Hank nods as well, his "yeah, you too" uncertain but friendly enough. Charles does not comment on it, seeing as Hank's expression more or less mirrors his own confused state of emotions, and they get into the car and drive away in silence. At least there is silence for all of thirty seconds.

"Hey, do you think you maybe need some clothes?" Peter asks, squeezed in between Erik and Hank in the back seat. "That jumpsuit is kind of made to draw people's attention, you know."

"I am aware" Erik replies, and the sound of his voice makes Charles itch to turn around and look at him. But he controls the urge and keeps his eyes on the long stretch of grey road ahead of them.

"There's a mall by the road to the airport, I think we can risk stopping there" Charles says. After all, no one but the Pentagon guards have seen Erik for the past ten years.

"Airport?" Erik repeats. "Charles, it's not that I'm not grateful for… whatever this is, but don't you think-"

"It's more like an airfield" Hank cuts in, once again saving Charles from having to say anything. "Private, no commercial flights. That's where the plane is."

"The plane? Where are we going?"

"Don't worry bub, I'll tell you all about it" Logan says. "There's still time."

Charles half expects Erik to protest and demand answers, but he does not. He remains silent until they reach the mall, where Charles presses a wad of dollar bills into Logan's hand and asks them to please be quick about it. He stays behind as the others leave the car, Hank to get some food for the plane-ride and Logan and Erik to find some clothes. Peter, with no particular mission to occupy him, disappears as well, and Charles can only hope that he will refrain from any shoplifting. That is one headache they can do well without, and the car is crammed enough as it is.

Twenty minutes later they are all back, Hank with a bag of soft drinks and sandwiches, Peter with a lollipop in his mouth, Logan enjoying a cigar, and Erik… Erik looks far more civilian than before. Far from the skinny jeans and dark turtlenecks Charles remembers him wearing, Erik is now dressed in a denim-blue shirt and dark corduroy pants, a long jacket hung over one arm and a bag of other items in his hand. He looks nothing at all like ten years imprisonment, and except perhaps for a few thin lines around the eyes, everything like Charles remembers him.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, a contact they simultaneously break as Logan humphs and gets into the car again, signaling to them all to get a move on. The silence is even more strained now, and if Hank's estimations are correct Charles can look forward to another ten hours of this quiet torture. Marvelous.

After having said goodbye to Peter and left the rental car in his care, Charles enters the aircraft with no small amount of apprehension at what might be going on inside. Nothing too bad, it turns out, if Logan telling Erik about the future from which he claims to come can be considered a good thing. Trask, Raven, the sentinels: Erik listens to all of it without a word and then turns to Charles.

"You believe him?" he asks, piercing grey eyes fixed on Charles.

"I do."

He does not need his abilities to know that Erik is conflicted. On the one hand he agrees with Raven and approves of her actions, on the other hand he will not want to risk the lives of every mutant, both living now and those still unborn, for the sake of killing one man. He is predictable in that regard, Erik, and Charles is not surprised when Erik agrees to help them.

Mutual silence settles over the three of them. With Logan philosophizing in his seat and Hank managing the aircraft, there is not much else for Charles to focus on than Erik. His presence is like a sore thumb in the eye, impossible to ignore, and the sound of the machine around them makes Charles wonder what he is thinking. In all likelihood there is more than just the sound of engines murmuring in his head right now – and there is no way for Charles to find out other than observe him. So he does, and as time passes it becomes obvious that they are all three of them just waiting for something to ignite the spark that will make all hell break loose.

It does, fifteen minutes later when they are soaring high above the clouds and Erik asks, without looking at him: "How did you lose them?"

"The treatment for my spine affects my DNA" Charles replies, gripping the armrest of his seat hard to maintain what little composure he still has. That grip tightens even more when Erik looks up at him.

"You sacrificed your powers so you could walk?"

Disbelief written all over his face. But he does not understand, could never.

"I sacrificed my powers so that I could sleep."

The last word comes out as little more than sob and he lowers his gaze, shaking his head as if this will save him from Erik's scrutiny. In control of his voice again, he says: "What do you know about it?"

"I've lost my fair share" Erik replies, voice low and intense.

"Ha" Charles says dryly, feeling the stinging sensation of tears in his eyes but refusing to wipe them away, using them instead as inspiration. "Dry your eyes Erik. It doesn't justify what you've done."

"You've no idea what I've done."

"I know you took the things that mean the most to me."

"Well maybe you should have fought harder for them" Erik says, voice as hard as steel, and Charles snaps.

"If you want to fight, Erik" Charles says, rising an instant after Erik does – hardly picking up on Logan's attempt at calming them down but clearly catching Erik's low _let him come_ – "I will give you a fight!"

He closes the distance between them in two strides, grasping at Erik's new shirt with both hands and pulling him down as he pours his heart out.

"You abandoned me!" he shouts and the pain sears through his body. "You took her away and you abandoned _me_!"

And Erik just looks at him, face as graven as if it was cut in stone.

"Angel" he says. "Azazel. Emma. Banshee."

Every name conjures an image in Charles' mind. He sees their faces as clearly in memory as if they were right here in the plane with them and knows, just as clearly from Erik's voice, that they too are gone. Lost.

"Mutant brothers and sisters! All dead!" Charles loses his footing as the airplane swerves wildly and dips to one side. As he falls down onto a cushioned seat he can hear the steel plates composing the walls shudder and groan under the strain and loose items are clattering down to the floor. "Countless others experimented on, butchered!"

"Erik-"

"Where were you Charles? We were supposed to protect them! Where were you when your own people needed you?"

Charles does not know if he is being pushed away from Erik or if he is moving by his own accord, but he is unable to look away from him.

"Hiding!" Erik answers his own question, "you and Hank! Pretending you're something you're not!"

"Erik!" Hank again, desperate, but nothing compared to Erik's anger and despair, burning in his eyes.

"You abandoned us all."

Erik says nothing more, and he does not need to. Charles is on his back on the table where his whisky glass stood before, it and its content now scattered on the floor like so many other things. His chest is heaving, and it takes many long moments before he is able to break away from Erik's condemning gaze. He stumbles to the cockpit and collapses into the vacant co-pilot seat. Hank keeps quiet, only pulls the door shut and then continues flicking his switches and checking his control panels. Charles looks out at the vast and empty blue sky, not bothering to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

It is only much, much later that he emerges from the cockpit, when the sky has turned from light to deep dark blue. The clutter and mess have been tidied away, but the smell of whisky permeates the small space – it must have soaked through the carpet. At least two of the glasses have survived though, standing again on their shelf next to the half full bottle of scotch.

Logan has taken the seat closest to the cockpit, as if on guard duty. He is dozing off now though, but Erik is still awake. Charles can feel his gaze upon his back as he takes one of the tumblers and fills it with the amber liquid, but none of them speak. Not because everything has already been said though – Charles has the distinct feeling that many more words lie unspoken between them – but because they both know what a torrent of pain and guilt can be unleashed by choosing the wrong ones.

He sits down in the seat furthest down in the cabin, very decidedly _not_ looking at Erik, but of course the small space makes it impossible for him not to notice when Erik gets to his feet a few minutes later. He seems to have acquainted himself with the airplane because he takes out the chessboard from its box in one of the cupboards. The pieces are made out of wood but has steel bands at the base and top, and Charles can see how they intrigue Erik as he arranges them carefully on the board without touching them – all thirty-two pieces dancing through the air at the same time. He then grabs the board and brings it over to the table in front of Charles.

It reminds him of images of temple priests bringing offerings to please their god, though Erik is not at all subservient in his manners, only reserved, and Charles is far from being pleased so easily. He takes a sip of whisky, steeling himself.

"Fancy a game?" Erik asks, his voice husky, all the passionate anger from earlier quite gone. "It's been a while."

"I'm not in the mood for games, thank you" Charles replies, looking out through the window. Something that is almost but not quite a sigh escapes Erik's lips and out of the corner of his eye Charles can see him reach over to the bottle and the empty glass on the tray, and hears him pour the whisky.

"I haven't had a real sip in ten years" Erik says, putting the bottle down. He sounds almost tired, speaking those words, and Charles can in a way understand why. Ten years is a horribly long time, for anything. Even so, he still refuses to turn his head and look at Erik as the man sits down on the armrest of the chair on the other side of the narrow passageway. Instead he listens, by his silence forcing Erik either to keep on talking or leave him alone.

"I didn't kill the president" Erik says a few moments later.

"The bullet curved, Erik" Charles replies. It is as if they have had this conversation before, the words are right there in his mouth, just waiting for him to speak them.

"Because I was trying to save him. They took me out before I could."

"Why would you try and save him?" Charles is unable not to look at Erik any longer, but he sorely needs an explanation to this claim – and Erik's reply is instantaneous.

"Because he was one of us."

With that, Charles has no more words. Thoughts and emotions rush through him like waves, from _he's lying, the bastard's lying through his teeth_ to _Erik never lies_ to _at least he never did_ to _bloody hell he's telling the truth_ and then, finally: _ten years._

Ten years imprisoned behind plastic and glass, sand and concrete, for a crime he tried to prevent.

"You must think me so foolish" he manages at last, voice betraying his shaken mental state. He was wrong, so completely and utterly wrong, and he has never been more angry with himself or happy about it. But even so, the past must for now give way to the present, to why they are here. "You were always certain they would come after us."

"I never imagined they'd use Raven's DNA to do it" Erik admits.

"When did you last see her?"

Erik does not reply immediately, but rises from the armrest and settles, almost hesitantly, in the seat opposite Charles before replying, quite guardedly: "The day I left for Dallas."

"And how was she?"

"Strong. Driven. Loyal."

It is a perfect character description of her, but that is not what Charles wants to know – and Erik must know that.

"How…" he swallows, "how _was_ she?"

Unable to phrase what he wants to know in any other words, the question comes out the same way, and Erik exhales, an almost laughing sound.

"She was… we were…"

Erik has always been a man of words. Not necessarily many words, but they have never eluded him before. That they do now makes alarm bells go off in Charles' mind, all the more so when Erik does not look at him as he continues.

"I could see why she meant so much to you."

Charles looks away and raises his glass to drink, almost automatically. The answer does in no way reveal anything of Erik's and Raven's relationship, but Charles knows how much she meant to him and knows full well that Erik would treasure her just as much for those same reasons as Charles did. But knowing does not mean that thinking about it does not hurt.

"You should be proud of her Charles. She's out there, fighting for our cause."

"Your cause" Charles points out and sets down the glass. "The girl I raised, she was not capable of killing."

"You didn't raise her, you grew up with her" Erik points out, "and she couldn't stay a little girl forever, that's why she left."

_You treat her like some secret comfort blanket, something that should be tucked away and cared for!_ The words echo in Charles' mind, memories of another argument. _If you can't stand to see her as she is, then you don't deserve to call yourself her brother._

"She left because you got inside her head" he retorts, intently, but Erik just smiles and shakes his head ever so slightly.

"That's not my power" he says. "She made a choice."

"But now we know where that choice leads, don't we? She's going to murder Trask, they're going to capture her, and then they're going to wipe us out."

"Not if we get to her first. Not if we change history tomorrow."

But it is not their history changing tomorrow, is it? Not yet, in any way. Tomorrow they will try and change the future – the past lies already well behind them and cannot be changed. None of it.

"I'm sorry, Charles" Erik says then, as if he had indeed stepped into Charles head and knew the thoughts there. "For what happened, I truly am."

And suddenly, those words are all Charles needed to hear. He sits back in the seat, tosses back the remainder of his whisky and then focuses his attention on the chessboard between them. There is so much more to say about what has happened and not, but those two words were all he truly needed to hear.

"It's been a while since I've played" he says, clearing his throat to rid himself of raw feelings.

"I'll go easy on you" Erik replies a few moments later, in an almost casual tone, and empties his own glass. "Might finally be a fair fight."

Charles bites back the reply that first comes to mind, settling instead for a more civilized approach.

"You have the first move."

In the next instant, one of Erik's pawns move one step forward, without him lifting a hand, and the sight of it causes Charles' lips to tremble for a brief moment. Once, this was their habit: to show off their powers to each other in small ways, just for the enjoyment of being able to share their capabilities with another. Charles always loved it whenever Erik manipulated small objects, more so than doors or cars or even that enormous submarine, because while those were always displays of power, the deft handling of coins or pens reflected other sides of Erik's intriguing person.

Even now the sight warms Charles' heart, and he makes his own move more from a desire to see Erik move his next piece, than in accordance with any conscious strategy. When Erik lets another of his pawns glide smoothly over the wooden board, Charles cannot hold back his smile.


	6. Chapter 6

It is a fair fight.

They are as evenly matched as during their last game, silently studying each other's moves and taking turns refilling the glasses when they empty. The game requires no conversation and the silence between them now is not strained at all, only silence. Charles loses track of the time, but they have perhaps been playing for three quarters of an hour when Erik makes a mistake that, only two moves later, costs him the game, thanks to the combined efforts of Charles' rook and knight.

"Well played" Erik says as he levitates all the captured pieces back onto the board. "Are you sure you've lost your powers?"

"Quite" Charles replies, with one raised eyebrow. "How long has it been since you last played?"

"Against an opponent? The day before Cuba." That answer brings back memories for both of them, and Erik thankfully chooses not to pursue that line of thought any further. "I like these pieces. Where did you get them?"

"I didn't. I had them made for you." Something about Erik's expression changes, but he neither answers nor replies, only lowers the last pieces onto the wooden board. "I never cheated, you know. When we played."

"I know" Erik says, looking up at him. "But you thought that I thought you did, and it affected your game."

"It did?"

"Yes Charles, it did" Erik says, his smile fond and reminiscing. "I think that was why I beat you at it so many times."

"Or maybe I've gotten better."

"Playing with Hank?"

Charles laughs at that.

"Maybe not. Hank is a genius, but not much of a strategist, I'm afraid."

A discreet cough from the direction of the cockpit startles them both.

"Are you eavesdropping Hank?" Charles asks, raising his voice just a little but unable to sound very accusing.

"Not intentionally" Hank replies, his voice somewhat muffled by the sounds of the airplane. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we have another six hours before we reach Paris. You might want to get some shut-eye."

"And what about you?"

Hank laughs, that peculiar mix of nervousness and cockiness.

"I'll be fine" he says. "All-nighters and I go way back."

"Alright" Charles says, darting a glance at Erik. "Thank you, Hank."

"And Charles…" Hank's voice is suddenly hesitant.

"Yes?"

"…we forgot to bring the serum."

For a moment, Charles fears his heart has stopped beating. Either that, or time has stopped, but whichever is true, it begins again in the next instant.

"Well, not much we can do about that now, is there?" he asks, attempting to sound casual but judging by the look on Erik's face, failing quite miserably.

"Not really, I'm afraid."

"Thanks for the heads-up though."

"Sure. I'll… close the door, will I?"

"Yes, please."

The expression on Erik's face is impossible for Charles to interpret. Erik has always been in control of himself, sometimes too much so, and perhaps that is why it is so difficult to discern his feelings from one another now. Charles imagines that he can see anger and curiosity there, maybe incomprehension, and, perhaps – guilt.

"The serum?" Erik asks, clearly wanting some clarification.

"Hank's miracle cure."

"You forgot it?"

Charles nods, grimacing slightly.

"And what does that mean?"

"I don't know" Charles answers truthfully. "Or I do. I know that at some point, probably within the next twenty-four hours, I'll lose the use of both my head and my legs. I just don't know when or how fast it will happen."

He does not look forward to it, not at all. He can only hope that it will not happen until they have reached Raven and are on their way back home.

"You can't control it?" Erik asks, his voice strained. "That's what you meant… earlier?"

Slowly, Charles takes a deep breath and, just as slowly, lets it out and nods. He cannot bear to look at Erik though, but rests his gaze on his fingers pinching the leather of the armrest.

"I told you once that accessing is not a problem to me. Shielding, on the other hand, is. After… what happened, I couldn't keep anything out."

He looks up at Erik then, with a considerable effort readying himself to reveal the width and breadth of his vulnerability.

"I heard everything" he says. "Sure, Hank's serum allows me to walk, but more than that, it allows me to stay sane. Relatively sane, at least."

"No wonder you blamed me for it."

One, two, three long seconds pass before Charles finds one single word to reply.

"What?"

Erik looks away. Abashed?

"After what happened in Cuba, I asked Emma to check up on you, see how you were. That's how I knew… that you had been paralyzed. And every night when I went to bed I could hear two things."

As Erik looks up to meet his gaze again, Charles can feel something cold running up his spine.

"You, screaming. The worst sound I've ever heard – yes, the worst" he adds, stopping a protest Charles was hardly even aware he was about to make. "And then you, again, telling me that I had caused it. Telling me I did it."

Charles' mouth is dry, but in a way neither whisky nor water could ever amend.

"How often?" he asks.

"Every night" Erik says again, and then, even quieter: "every night."

"Even now?"

"Even now."

They look at each other and it seems to Charles as if they are somehow seeing each other for the first time. They have spent a decade building their own images of each other, but only now have those images started to fade and given way to their real selves.

"I never blamed you for my injury, Erik."

Charles leans forward in his chair, wanting almost desperately to grasp Erik's hands and squeeze them, reassure him, but Erik's hands are too far away for that.

"For killing Shaw while I shared his mind? Yes. For almost killing thousands of innocent people, yes. For leaving… yes. But I never blamed you for my injury."

Erik does not reply, not immediately, but looks away, out through the window where the sky is pitch black. When he speaks, his words are almost inaudible.

"Why not?"

"It was an accident. Erik, you didn't hurt me on purpose, you deflected bullets meant for _you_. If even one of them had hit, you could have died, right then and there."

"You almost did."

"But I _didn't_, and neither did you."

Part of him wants to tell Erik to stop blaming himself, but he refrains from doing so. That would be presumptuous, to say the least, and this is no small matter. This is ten years of guilt weighing down, a yoke which can hardly be lifted away by a few words. This, he realizes, is Erik reliving the worst moments of his life, again and again – these past ten years, just like he did when they first met.

"You told me once" Erik begins, then clears his throat and blinks rapidly before starting over, "you told me once that you didn't think you could endure living physically impaired."

"I did?"

Charles has no recollection whatsoever of this statement, but it does not really surprise him. It seems to him, now, quite a normal sentiment. It also explains Erik's judgmental question earlier: _you sacrificed your powers so that you could __**walk**__?_ has a slightly different ring to it now than when it was spoken.

"Well, I did endure" Charles says with emphasis. "And I would, if my head didn't feel like it was splitting into millions of pieces. Erik, please believe me when I tell you that I never, _ever_, put you at fault for it."

Finally Erik looks at him again, a flood of emotions in his gray eyes.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you" he says. "That was unfair of me."

Charles shakes his head

"No, you were right. I was hiding. And I would still be hiding if it wasn't for Logan and his bloody dystopian future."

He looks up the cabin to where Logan is sitting, still sleeping. The sight of him reminds Charles that he, too, is tired. More than that, really, he is exhausted and ahead of them is what promises to be another exhausting day. Even so, he does not think even for a second that he will be able to fall asleep out here, with Erik watching him from only two feet away.

"But I wasn't hiding from you. I waited for you to come back."

This revelation causes a reaction in Erik's expression, a slight furrowing of his brow, something changing in his eyes.

"For how long?"

"Every day" Charles says, smiling at how similarly their ten years apart have been, after all, and then chuckles awkwardly. "Even when they put you in prison, I still half believed that you would just show up at the house one day, wearing that awful helmet. God, I hated it from the moment you put it on."

Erik smiles at that, an inwardly smile that could mean just about anything. If Charles still had his powers, would he be so casual then, or would he worry about Charles eavesdropping on his thoughts? Once he had let Charles do it, even encouraged him to take part of his thoughts and memories, welcomed him. Not now. Well, good thing Erik does not have to worry about that anymore.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll retire for the evening" Charles says then, and rises from the seat, and Erik's expression immediately changes to one of puzzlement.

"Where-?" he begins, and then looks down the plane to door at the end. "You have a _bedroom_ in your airplane?"

"Well, it is _my_ airplane, after all. And it's not so much a bedroom as a mattress behind a plywood screen." Then, after hesitating for only a second, he asks: "Will you be alright?"

Erik laughs, without much humor.

"I've spent almost ten years in the same ninety square feet with an air mattress as my only furniture. I think I'll be just fine."

A bit taken aback, Charles feels his composure slipping away.

"Good, well… goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Charles."

Walking away from him feels wrong, but Charles does it anyway. The thin door separating the small sleeping area from the main cabin provides at least a modicum of privacy, and he is in a sudden and desperate need of it.

The bed is narrow but comfortable enough as he sits down on it and buries his face in his hands, sighing.

He can hardly even recall a time when a day or a week was not exactly the same as the day or week before, and the past twenty-four hours have left him feeling washed and wrung out and left to dry. So much has happened in such a short space of time: breaking into and out of the Pentagon, meeting Erik… Yesterday morning he would never even have imagined leaving the house and now here he is, halfway to Paris!

A soft knock on the door does nothing to relieve him of his sense of unease.

"Yes?" he says, lowering his hands and putting absolutely no effort into trying to sound alert or chipper. The door opens anyway, of course, revealing, of course, Erik.

He fills the entire doorway, tiny as it is, and with the lights turned on outside and this room completely dark, Charles can hardly discern his expression. Nor does he have the time to do so, as Erik steps into the cramped space and closes the door behind him, leaving the two of them no more than a foot apart.

"There was something I forgot to ask" Erik says, voice barely audible.

"And it couldn't wait another five hours?"

Evidently not. Whatever this is about, it has Erik giving off a multitude of contradicting signals ranging from urgency and nervousness to… embarrassment?

"The night before Cuba…" Erik says, one hand still resting on the doorknob as if he wants to be able to excuse himself and escape instantaneously, should the need arise.

"What about it?" Charles asks, knitting his brows at the recollection. There was a lot of things going on that day, and night, not to mention the day after – Erik is going to have to be more specific than that.

"What did you mean by 'tomorrow'?"

It is not at all specific and yet Charles knows exactly what Erik is referring to. He knows it because those minutes were imprinted with painstaking accuracy into his mind and have been replaying over and over again, times beyond counting. He knows it because the _tomorrow_ that actually came, turned out to be an entirely different tomorrow than any he could have ever imagined.

He looks up at Erik, searching for his eyes through the darkness, but remains as he is, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together. Then, biting his lower lip briefly, he sighs and mentally squares his shoulders.

"I don't remember what I meant" he says, and seeing Erik about to protest, continues: "but I know that 'tomorrow' can never replace 'today'. Walking away from you that night… I regretted it for a very long time."

A moment of silence.

"And walking away from me tonight?" Erik's hand has left the doorknob, but he remains by the door – Charles could reach out and touch him, but does not dare to. Not yet. "Will you regret that?"

"I will" Charles says, pressing down the thickness in his throat. Erik stirs by the door, perhaps about to leave, and Charles rises from bed. "If _you_ turn around and leave now, I will regret it."

They look at each other for several long moments without speaking, the lack of light making it impossible to see anything except the rough outlines of jaw, nose, mouth and brow. In the next instant there is no longer any distance between them, both of them closing it as their bodies and lips meet, hands touching hair, cheek, neckline, collarbone, and it is everything that Charles remembers it to be: intoxicating, desperate, _ravenous_.

He wants to rip Erik's shirt to pieces and pull him to the bed, wants to ravage him and be ravaged in turn, wants to erase all the misunderstandings and cement all the longing that lie between them. He wants to devour Erik and know him once again as he once did. He does not want _tomorrow_, he wants _now._

And Erik gives it to him.


	7. Chapter 7

It is the knock on the thin plywood door that brings him back to consciousness: a heavy, intrusive sound that is almost immediately followed by Logan's voice, evidently amused.

"Rise and shine, you two. Hank says we're landing in half an hour."

Charles groans, body protesting against waking up to another long day after too few hours of sleep. His head aches, too, but there are no traces of errant thoughts other than his own, and he can still feel and use his legs, which is more than he dared to hope for. Even so he sits up in the bed with slow and careful movements, not fully trusting in his own muscles. Erik is already on his feet and buttoning his shirt, alert and intent.

"Do you have a razor?" he asks, fingers nimbly working the small buttons.

"Well good morning to you, too" Charles mumbles, one eyebrow arched only slightly as he rubs his eyes and then yawns. At Erik's half annoyed, half disinterested glance, he shakes his head slightly. "Do I look like I use one regularly? Ask Hank."

"You did, once" Erik replies, correcting his cuffs.

"And you used to call _me_ vain" Charles mutters: a remark which bounces off of Erik's back as he opens the door and heads off toward the front of the plane.

Charles remains where he is, sitting crouched on the edge of the bed, trying to get his head back in working order despite the lack of sleep. The bed is in a state of complete disarray. The sheets are crumpled, the cover well on its way to cover the floor rather than the bed, and there is that tinge of intimacy in the air that Charles just knows that Hank will undoubtedly pick up on.

Not that it is much of his business, Charles reminds himself: Hank can draw whatever conclusions he wishes, if he can spare the attention. As for right now however, Hank is the least of his problems.

"Hey professor, want some breakfast?"

Logan's question is innocent enough, and his tone of voice nothing but casual, but there is a glint in his eyes that Charles interprets as amusement, and once again he gets the feeling that Logan knows more about him than he does himself. Not at all a comforting thought, but one he pushes to the back of his mind all the same, to better focus on what lies before them.

"We have breakfast?" he asks, unable to recall when that kind of preparation was taken care of.

"Of a sort. We still have some of the sandwiches Hank bought yesterday, and some coffee."

"I suppose that will have to do, then."

It does do, and it does them well. The bread is spongy and the coffee black as pitch, but it fills their stomachs and occupies their hands as they are squeezed into and just outside the cockpit to discuss the strategy of the day together with Hank – who still sounds pretty chipper, in spite of the long night by the control panels.

"We have permission to land on a private airfield about forty-five minutes' drive from the building where the accords will be signed" Hank says, attention still focused on the instruments in front of him. "There will be a car waiting for us there, and we should have about two hours from landing until the official signing ceremony."

"How convenient" Erik says, rather dryly. He has barely touched his coffee – he never liked it, Charles recalls, and has apparently not acquired a taste for it in prison.

"Convenience is the providence of the wealthy" Charles says, looking at him over the edge of his own coffee cup. "Well done on arranging that, Hank, thank you."

Hank shrugs, a faint blush of embarrassment at the praise.

"That doesn't solve the problem of what we're going to do when we get there" he points out.

"There's no problem" Erik says. "A service entrance is the only thing we need to get us in."

"And what about security?" Charles is fairly sure that even the French will have armed guards at a meeting of this importance, and they will probably be even less inclined to heed any of his non-powered suggestions than the guards at the Pentagon.

"I'll take care of them" Logan and Erik say simultaneously, causing Hank to snort with suppressed laughter and Charles to frown, while the two caretakers in question raise eyebrows at each other.

"Alright, but no killing. We'll just go inside, get Raven and get out of there."

Neither Logan nor Erik replies, but Hank flicks a few switches and gives them all a quick look.

"You'd better take your seats" he says, "I'm taking us down now."

As they leave Hank to work his magic, Charles cannot help but think that if this rescue mission succeeds, it will be the second greatest stroke of luck of his life, in only two days. That they will actually be able to get into the correct building and reach Raven before she makes a mistake that will change all their lives to the worse, _and_ get out of there, in a mere two hours, feels absolutely impossible. On the other hand, breaking into the Pentagon and getting out of there should also be impossible, and they managed that quite well, all things considered.

True to Hank's word, there is a car waiting for them by the airfield, key in the ignition, a map of Paris on the dashboard and the tank full of gas. Logan takes the wheel without question and Charles is surprised to see that Erik does not argue with him – something is going on between those two, and though Charles is unsure of exactly what that something is, he is quite certain it is not a budding friendship. Even so, Erik takes the passenger seat and Charles gets into the back seat with Hank.

* * *

They find their way into the French capital without much trouble and through mutual efforts of reading the map and numerous road signs manage to end up where they want to be. There is indeed another entrance than the main one, guarded but not heavily so, and Erik incapacitates the two men with a flick of his wrist. From then on it is smooth sailing. Only one person stops them as they enter the building and Erik surprises all of them by addressing him in smooth French. After what Charles presumes to be an exchange of directions and thanks, Erik knocks the man out with a lamp he has levitated from off a nearby table. Charles must look nonplussed to say the least, because as they continue along down the hallway, Erik shoots him an odd look.

"What?" he asks, "You didn't think I had it in me to ask nicely?"

Not sure what to think of either Erik, his abilities or his methods of inquiry, Charles just shakes his head.

"Let's find Raven, alright?"

Already they can hear the sound of a fight and then people are coming towards them, presumably running for safety as not one single person so much as bats an eyelash at their being there.

"Raven!"

Erik calls out just as they turn around a corner and Charles sees her then, turning to them as they enter the room, squatting on a table with a gun clasped in her hand. In the next moment she falls down, the momentary lapse in concentration all that the man on the floor needed to take her down.

Erik reacts instantly, turning the man's electro-strings against him, and Charles rushes to Raven's side as she lies convulsing with shock on the table.

"Raven" he says, hardly believing that she is really there, almost afraid to touch her – afraid that she will disappear from underneath his fingers if he does – and yet unable not to. "Raven..."

"Charles…"

She is out of breath and she sounds as disbelieving as he feels. He caresses her hair and feels again that pang of time lost that shook him so only the day before. The years of separation from Erik have also been years of separation from her, and he is stricken both with the memories of the girl he knew and the sudden meeting with the unknown woman in front of him.

"We've come for you, Erik and I" he says, because suddenly this is important. Not one or the other, but he and Erik. "Together."

"I never thought I'd see you again."

"I made you a promise a long time ago that I would protect you, and I didn't. I know, I know I haven't been-" He hardly knows the words coming out of his mouth, only the feeling of joy, the feeling that everything will finally be alright again. "I'm going to keep you safe. I'm going to keep you out of their hands."

Something moves, just on the edge of his field of vision, and Raven stirs, looking past him, her voice cautious as she says Erik's name. Erik, who when Charles turns toward him is holding a gun, aiming it at Raven.

"Erik?" Charles echoes, not comprehending but realizing that everything is certainly not alright. "What are you doing?"

"Securing our future" Erik answers, his voice steady save for the slightest tremble, finger tightening around the trigger. "Forgive me, Mystique. As long as you're out there, we'll never be safe."

Hank reacts, voice low but tentative as he moves slightly, saying Erik's name like a warning.

"Use your power, Charles" comes Raven's voice from behind him. "Stop him."

Unable to answer her, Erik does it for him.

"He can't."

One heartbeat later, Raven scrambles to her feet at the table and Hank tackles Erik forcibly to the side. For a moment, Charles thinks that perhaps Erik has lost control of the gun, but that is not the case. The gun fires and for a moment Charles _knows_ that the bullet will pass right through him, but it does not. It whizzes past his face and after Raven who has jumped out of the window, the sound of glass crashing immediately followed by screams from the crowd assembled outside. Hank is lying motionless on the floor and Charles throws himself on Erik, growling at him, at being betrayed again, and again they are rolling on the floor, grappling at each other, wrestling until Erik pushes him away. His head connects with the floor with a hard _thwack_ and pain explodes on the inside of his skull, leaving him disoriented and groggy as he tries to get back on his feet.

Erik is gone, so is Trask. Behind him, he can hear Logan's murmured "Where am I?" and realizes, for the first time, that the man has done nothing to stop Erik from killing Raven, or, for that matter, to help him or Hank to restrain the man.

"Huh?" he says, trying to find his own mental bearings much in the same way as Logan struggles to get back on his feet.

"How the hell did I get here?"

"What? You came to us."

"Who are you?"

"Charles" he replies automatically, only to be grabbed violently by his collar. "Charles Xavier!"

"I don't know you."

"Huh?"

"What the hell is that?!" Logan loosens his grip on Charles' collar, taking several steps back as he sees Hank – distress obvious in his voice, weariness apparent in Hank's growl at the reaction.

"Whoa, whoa" Charles says, and seeing as this confusion will only slow them down, Charles ushers Hank toward the window, to wherever Raven has run and Erik has followed. "Look, I can deal with this: just go. Stop Erik!"

Hank dashes away and Charles directs his attention to Logan who seems to be having some sort of panic attack, breathing heavily and his gaze flitting back and forward in the room. Outside Charles can hear Hank roaring and people screaming.

"You're Logan" he says, almost wishing for his powers to suddenly appear and underline his words. "That's Hank McCoy, I'm Charles Xavier. You spent the last couple of days with us."

This doesn't seem to do very much to aid Logan's mental health, so after a split second, Charles decides to use the only other explanation that might justify all the crazy currently going on around them.

"You're on acid. Somebody gave you really bad acid, yeah? Just hold on tight, we'll get through this together."

Oddly enough, this seems to strike a chord with Logan, and a good thing too. Next to them, the military man who has been sprawling on the floor, held down by his own Taser, gets to his feet and scrambles to the door, hesitating for only a moment with a long look on Logan's bone claws before disappearing out of the room. Something takes a hold of Logan then: he blinks, almost but not quite shaking his head as if clearing it from muddy thoughts, and when he looks at Charles again there is recognition in his eyes.

"Professor?" he says, and Charles nods.

"What happened to you?" he asks, only too conscious of the fact that the cacophony of roars and shrieks and grinding metal outside has died down, replaced instead by crying and the distant wailing of sirens.

"I just saw someone who's gonna bring me a lot of pain someday. Where's Raven?"

Charles shakes his head, the loss fresh again in his mind.

"Gone."

"What?"

"We have to get out of here" he says, heading for the doors as the sound of sirens grows stronger. They have to get out of the building before anyone finds them, and he can only hope that when they get to the airplane, Hank will be there waiting with Raven. He can hope, but as he and Logan exit the building out onto the street, what little hope he had shatters. In all the confusion and hullabaloo they pass unnoticed through the crowd and stalk side by side in silence for a few blocks before hailing a cab. They change taxis two more times before going to the airfield and when they arrive, Hank is there, disheveled and quiet but visibly shaken. No sign of Raven.

There is no point in expecting her or Erik to show up, so they get inside the plane and within half an hour they are in the air, heading home. It is a silent journey back across the ocean: all of them caught in their own deep and troubling thoughts and loath to share them with each other. At one point Charles tries to approach Hank about what happened out in the street, but Hank shakes his head and stares straight ahead, out into the night.

"I don't want to talk about it" he says, adding after a moment, "I really don't."

And Charles settles with that, retreating to his bedroom alcove which, in spite of its small size, feels empty. The smell of Erik still lingers in the sheets, in the pillows, and Charles inhales the mixed scent of sweat and proximity as if it were incense. He remembers the taste of Erik's mouth on his own, hands tugging, pulling at clothes, arms embracing and naked skin pressed close together, trying to make ten years apart disappear by pressing out all the physical distance between them.

As he closes his eyes, he can hear them faintly at the back of his head, like whispers from faraway in an otherwise empty room, the thoughts, Hank's and Logan's thoughts. He grits his teeth for the fraction of a second, then exhales. When at long last he falls asleep, the pillow is wet with tears.


	8. Chapter 8

When they arrive back at the mansion they are all tired and hungry, perhaps even bewildered by their failure. Who knew that breaking into the Pentagon would be so easy, and to get Raven back home so very difficult?

Every step from the car and up to the house is agony but he tries not to show it. Hank must know that he is close to collapsing, but has said nothing about it: still, it has been almost 48 hours since Charles' last dose and he has not gone this long without the serum in years. That he can still walk, that he can still function at all, is something of a miracle – or a curse, as it turns out.

He makes it through the hallway before he collapses on the floor. The pain, ignored and held at bay for so long, rounds on him like a ferocious tiger, striking his body and mind alike. As if through a heavy fog he can hear Logan's voice, not altogether worried but troubled, asking Hank (not Charles himself) if he can walk.

Hank bends down to him, scoops him up from the floor, and the proximity is the only reason why Charles can hear him.

"He needs his treatment."

Oh yes, he does. The treatment, that shot of cool bliss rushing through his veins, padding the innards of his head, cottoning his spine, keeping out all the confusion and hurt and pain. _Hang on, hang on._

"Hank, I can hear them" he says, and as if admitting it makes it more real, the unwanted thoughts press on even closer, making him cringe as they bore their way through his feeble defenses.

"I know" Hank replies, setting him down by a pillar, "it's okay."

"Can you make it stop?" he asks, voice trembling as he holds on to Hank's jacket, gripping at the only thing that seems real.

"I'll get them."

Hank's face disappears and Charles closes his eyes, squeezes them shut as hard as he presses his hands to his head, trying in vain to keep out the sounds of voices, non-spoken words and feelings thought and felt from miles away.

"Hey, hey" drifts through, Logan's voice, harsh. "Pull yourself together, it's not over yet."

And just then, he hears it – the sound of Logan, of his thoughts churning, right there next to him, and he grasps for them, one tiny straw to keep him afloat until Hank comes back with his needle of relief.

"You don't believe that" he says, almost enjoying the look of Logan, taken aback.

"How do you know?"

"As these go" Charles replies, motioning to his now shivering, useless legs, and then at his head, "this comes back. They all come back."

And Logan moves away and the straw he has been clinging to breaks and he is adrift again, his mind unprotected against the assault. _Soon_, he picks up among the clatter, and he struggles out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirtsleeve, hardly paying attention to Logan's words.

"Look" the man says, "I'm still here, and she's still out there. We need your help, Charles. Not like this. I need _you_."

The buttons have come undone and he is rolling up his shirtsleeve, frantically, _where the hell has Hank gone?_

"We can't find Raven. Not without your powers."

He is flexing his arm slightly but stops and looks up at Logan, almost expecting something more, but then Hank comes back, syringe in hand.

"I added a little extra because you missed a dose" he says and Charles reaches for the needle, all of his remaining attention focused on its sharp point and the amber liquid rising from it as he presses out any remaining air bubbles. It looks like whisky, and like whisky, these are drops of life. Sanity. Respite.

"Charles."

There is an undertone to Logan's voice and Charles breaks his gaze away from the syringe, but Logan says no more. He rearranges the needle in his hand, aims it to his bare wrist and the vein through which his blood will transport the drug throughout his body and cleanse it, heal it.

_I need you_, Logan had said.

_Where were you Charles?_ Erik had asked him, no, demanded of him. _We were supposed to protect them! Where were you when your own people needed you? Hiding._

He looks at Logan, then at the drug in his hand, but there is no answer there. Erik provided him with that as well.

_You abandoned us all._

He lowers the syringe, then puts it away on the floor, and it feels like giving up, like giving in to the sea of despair and let yourself sink to the bottom. He rubs at his cheek, his temples, his eyes, then inhales sharply, hoping beyond hope that oxygen will somehow do the trick.

It does not, of course, but when he opens his eyes again and looks at Logan, there is a small nod coming from the other man, an acknowledgment, and, rather shakily, Charles turns to Hank instead.

"Hank, do me a favor. Would you help me to my study, please?"

For a long moment, Hank simply looks at him, and there is so much in that look. Years and years of unspoken worry, and checking up on him, and looking after him even in his worst days, and the shocking realization that in all that time, Charles has never asked Hank for anything. Hank has simply done it, and Charles has taken it for granted.

Then Hank inclines his head and bends down, demonstrating once again how his scrawny frame belies his strength as he gathers Charles' un-cooperative body into his arms and helps him back on his feet. Supported in this fashion, Charles makes it into the study, legs numb but moveable – albeit in an almost mechanical and graceless way. Situated on the armrest of an armchair, he exhales, trying to get his breathing and his mind under control, watching as Hank approaches one of the closets with the same caution he would a live animal.

"Are you sure about this?" Hank asks as he opens it, revealing the wheelchair within.

It is a justified question. He spent years in that wheelchair, slowly falling apart piece by piece as the world crumbled beneath his feet. Not that being out of it has been much better, but at least he has retained his sanity – or parts of it, anyway. To put the syringe down was not an easy decision, in fact, he is not quite sure he has actually made it yet, and to sit back down in that chair…

He does not want to. But if he wants to find Raven, then there is no other option available.

"Absolutely not."

Even so, sitting down in it is strangely comfortable. Well, it is designed for him after all, and he spared no expense in having it built – refusing to be wheeled around in something common and impractical. It still works, the joystick responding to his touch with only a hint of a groan from disuse. He and Hank discuss it for a while, apply grease to a few of the joints, and then it runs smoothly. Logan watches them as they go about their business, puffing absentmindedly on his cigar, his only discernible expression concern whenever Charles is overwhelmed by thoughts crashing in on him.

Once they are good to go, or roll, as in his case, Charles can no longer feel his legs. Hank tests the reflexes in his knees, despite the fact that they can both foresee the result – that there are no reflexes to speak of.

"We'd better get to it" Logan says, putting out what is left of his cigar in an ashtray on the desk. "I didn't have a whole lot of time to begin with."

* * *

Charles has almost forgotten how different the basement is from the rest of the house. The metallic corridors with the bright, white lights on the walls and in the ceiling are a stark contrast to the homely, if somewhat untended, floors above ground. Hank and Logan are walking behind him, both projecting thoughts that Charles cannot help but pick up. What really makes him react though, is a glimpse of memory from Logan, a memory of him walking down this very hall many times before.

Before – or later, in years to come? Perhaps they are one and the same, the then and now. There is no other way for him to wrap his head around it.

Then he realizes with sudden clarity that now he knows. Now, after days of chaos and wreaking havoc, he has access to Logan's mind and knows with this sliver of a memory that what he has said must be true. _Is_ true.

He sighs, relieved that neither Hank nor Logan can see his face right now.

"When was the last time you were down here?" Logan asks.

"The last time we went looking for students" Hank replies, a very vague answer to come from a scientist.

"A lifetime ago" Charles adds, voice trembling, his heart heavy in his chest at the memories. His own memories.

He stops in front of the circular door and does not flinch as computer performs its retina scan on his eyes. A few moments later, the buzzing changes and a cool female voice greets him as the door opens.

Cerebro.

The center of the platform seems miles away, the great sphere surrounding them like a cave – a cage. He was so enthusiastic when Hank completed it, longing even, to use it, only to have that too, taken away from him.

He sighs again, this time to steel himself, to raise his hands to the control panel and lift the helmet off its rack.

"Raven's wounded" Hank says behind him, leaning forward to switch on some of the dials. "She won't be moving fast."

He reaches out and takes the helmet in both hands. There is a layer of dust on it and as he blows at it, the dust rises like a cloud and dissipates into the air.

"These are muscles I haven't stretched in a long time" he says, more to himself than to any of his companions, and with hands shaking from trepidation, he puts the helmet on his head.

At first, nothing happens. Then, with a soft whirr, the machine starts.

So many minds touching his, thousands and thousands of minds, not only mutants, humans too, and it is as if all the minds of the world are mirrors of his own, full of devastation and sorrow and hurt and pain. Pain, pain, pain – spinning so wildly around him that he can get hold of nothing else and he screams, unable to pull away, screams until it feels as if his head will explode.

And then the machine does.

He fumbles to get the helmet off, breathing heavily, groaning as the weight of the world ebbs away. Hank's hands on his shoulders, worried, comforting.

"Charles? It's all right."

His heart is racing madly, chest heaving as his lungs struggle for air, and he can feel Logan's gaze at him. What does he see? The man he knew before, the man he respected and trusted enough to make this strange journey, reduced to such a shivering, panting, useless mess? Does his hope of success fail him now, as Charles' hope failed him many years ago? Will he give up, or find another way to change his history – leave Charles to whatever future might still be available to him?

Hank rubs him on his upper arm, a gesture of reassurance which does nothing to ease Charles' current disdain of himself.

"I'll go check the generator" he says, and the sound of his steps as he walks out of the spherical chamber echoes off the walls.

"It's not the machinery, is it?" Logan says, and the tone of his voice tells Charles that Logan knows his question is a rhetorical one.

Charles shakes his head.

"I can't do this" he says, the words a confession as they fall from his lips. "My mind…"

"Yes, you can" Logan interrupts.

"Nnn- It won't take it."

"You're just a little rusty."

"You don't understand!" he snaps, "it's not a question of being rusty. I can flip the switches, I can turn the knobs, but my power comes from _here_. It comes from…"

His hand, gesturing at first at his head, moves to his heart where it flutters indecisively as he searches his mind for a word, the word, and finds it.

"And it's broken."

Not his power in itself, but where it comes from. Him. He is broken. And there is nothing he can do now to fix it.

"I feel like one of my students. Helpless." He can taste the bitterness in his mouth as he turns the wheelchair around, pushing it toward the door, out, away. "It was a mistake coming here. It was a mistake freeing Erik. This whole thing has been one bloody mistake! I'm sorry Logan, but they sent back the wrong man."

"You're right." Logan's voice is calm and matter-of-fact, casual. "I am."

Charles stops the wheelchair. He is just by the door, has only a feet or so to roll before he is out of the chamber and yet he cannot help but be intrigued by this relaxed admittance and he turns the wheelchair a few degrees.

"Actually, it was supposed to be you" Logan continues, and walks up to him. "But I was the only one who could physically make the trip. And, uh… I don't know how long I've got here. But I do know that a long time ago… actually, a long time from _now_…"

Logan leans down, his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair, invading Charles' personal space and not giving a single fuck about it.

"_I_ was your most helpless student. And _you_ unlocked my mind. _You_ showed me what I was. You showed me what I could be."

Charles does not want to hear this, does not want to hear what Logan expects of him because he simply cannot do it, and he shakes his head, wants to tell him to _please, stop, stop, don't say any more_, but no words come out and Logan continues:

"I don't know how to do that for you. You're right. I don't. But I know someone who might."

"Hmm" is what Charles manages to produce, a sound that is thankfully neither a sob nor a cry, but not much of anything else either.

"Look into my mind" Logan says, and Charles shies away from the invitation, finally able to form words again.

"You saw what I did to Cerebro" he says, nodding in the direction of the control panel and its row of broken glass panes. "You don't want me inside your head."

"There's no damage you can do that hasn't already been done. Trust me. Come on."

He does not want to trust Logan on that one, knowing only too well his own suffering and fearing the effect it might have on someone else – but he does. There is no other option, because whatever else he might want or not want, he could not live with himself knowing that his reluctance to act would result in genocide. And Logan is so calm, so certain of himself and, Charles notes, Charles' ability, that for a second he actually believes that maybe he can do what Logan thinks he can. What he once knew he could.

He reaches out his hand to Logan's face, index and middle finger together, touching the other man's temple, looking into his eyes.

At once they flood him, visions of memories of other times, other places. Water and glass and white-hot pain searing through every limb, a kind hand on his skin, a kiss, bones breaking, heart breaking, flaming red hair, tears streaming down turning into ash, lives and loves lost forever.

"You poor, poor man" he says, swallowing down, pushing away all the horror that lies behind those kind, warm eyes.

"Look past me" Logan says, as if all that suffering is not his but something someone has once told him. But it is his suffering, his life, and Charles has enough of his own.

"No, I don't _want_ your suffering, I don't _want _your future!"

"Look past my future. Look for _your_ future" Logan presses on and damnit, Charles cannot bring himself to remove his fingers from the other man's face, can no longer shield himself from the plethora of images rushing at him. "That's it. That's it."

_That's it_. It echoes in his mind, a whisper only, and he finds himself opening his eyes. He is no longer in Cerebro's airy chamber, but not strictly speaking in Logan's memory either. He is… Logan. Or rather, wherever, whenever, Logan is. Another time.

There are people nearby, he can feel the presence of their minds, but they are not _really_ there, fuzzy and out of reach, and they pay no attention to him. He glances at them, trying to understand what is going on, and then he sees them.

Himself, older, wrinkled, bald. And Erik, also old and face furrowed by age and grief, right behind him – still, he notices, wearing that horrible helmet. Close enough to touch.

His body, or soul, or whatever essence of his being has come to this place and time, moves in front of his older self, bending down so that he can study his own face. Is this his future? Will it be his future?

"Charles." It is he who speaks the name, not his own self, but rather his future self, and it is a greeting. A greeting he repeats, unable to withhold a note of wonder, of triumph, from his voice. "_Charles_."

His older self nods, sagely almost, and for a brief moment he understands what made Logan undertake the journey. He feels in awe of this man. Of himself.

"So this is what becomes of us" he says. "Erik was right. Humanity does this to us."

"Not if we show them a better path" future-Charles replies.

"You still believe?"

"Just because someone stumbles, loses their way, it doesn't mean they're lost forever. Sometimes we all need a little help."

He shakes his head.

"Oh, I'm not the man I was" he says, thinking to himself (both his selves?) that _nor yet the man I became_. "I open my mind… and it almost overwhelms me."

His voice is shaky, like was he on the verge of tears, but his older self only watches him calmly.

"You're afraid, and Cerebro knows it."

"All those voices… So… much… pain."

"It's not their pain you're afraid of. It's yours, Charles. And as frightening as it may be, that pain will make you stronger. If you allow yourself to feel it, embrace it, it will make you more powerful than you ever imagined. It's the greatest gift we have, to bear their pain without breaking. And it's born from the most human power. Hope."

With that one word, it is as if their mind becomes one, his future self lending him memories of times that have yet to come. Faces, voices, laughs, a brightness in the world.

"Please, Charles" his older self says, "we need you to hope again."

As suddenly as he was there, wherever _there_ was, he is back.

"Find what you were looking for?" Logan asks, a knowing expression on his face.

Charles does not answer immediately and before he can do so, the lights come on again and the whirr of the generator drifts through the walls and the floor.

"The power's back on." It is Hank, stating the obvious, and yet somehow, he says something else as well. Something which, as Charles' eyes meet Logan's, feels right and true, in that place deep inside that was broken.

"Yes" he says. "Yes, it is."


	9. Chapter 9

While Hank is obviously feeling as if he has missed something important, looking back and forth between Charles and Logan, he does not ask about it but merely suggests that they try again.

"If you're feeling up to it" he adds hastily, looking at Charles.

"I do believe so, yes" Charles says, squaring his shoulders a bit. Whatever that was, that strange meeting through time and space, it has given him some sense of reassurance and he would rather not risk losing it, simply to go have a cup of coffee.

This time, it is both simpler and more difficult. Once again, it all comes crashing down upon him, the anguish, the losses, but instead of trying to shield himself from it, he opens up his mind. _Feel it, embrace it,_ he tells himself, and the longer he sits there, the easier the pain becomes to bear. It stops pressing down on him and he can begin to feel other things, a glimmer of relief, a pinch of joy.

"Charles? Are you alright? You've been going at it for half an hour and-"

"I'm fine, Hank" he says, only half aware of the words. "It's okay."

And it is.

Slowly, he begins to search. First of all for feelings, trying to find happiness and excitement, the first sparks of love, and only once he has found them and not been overtaken by them, does he begin to search for Raven.

There is no way he could ever explain how to anyone else, but he turns his mind to Europe, to France, vainly hoping that she will not yet have had the chance to leave the country. It takes him some time to sort out all the humans and focus only on those bright lights out there that are mutants. He touches their minds ever so lightly, their sadness or fear, the relief of some, people who have seen the news and only just found out that there are others like them: that they are not alone.

He does not touch Raven's mind when he finds her. It is too familiar, too off-limits, so he circles around it instead, trying to find a way to approach her. Then he settles on a little old lady, taking over her mind and body with as much care and caution as he can – and then sees the world through her eyes.

Sees Raven.

"Raven, stop." The words come out of the borrowed mouth in a voice much different from his own, but she hears it, turns to it. "Stop running."

"Charles?" she says, brow furrowed, not quite believing what must still seem to her the only possible explanation. Erik told her that Charles could not use his powers – now, less than 24 hours later, he does. But there is no time to explain. "Where are you?"

"Back at the house, where you should be. I need you to come home."

Her expression changes, she pulls away.

"I know what I need to do."

Raven rises from her seat and Charles leaves the mind he stepped into, searching rapidly through the crowd to catch sight of Raven, to find someone's voice through which to speak to her.

"If you kill Trask, you will be creating countless more just like him" he says from another body, another mouth, and Raven catches on, even as she moves away from him, "Then I'll kill them, too" ringing in Charles' mind as jumps hastily to another mind, meeting her.

"Those are Erik's words, not yours."

Then, a strike of luck – a stewardess has walked into Raven and as she bends down to pick up the fallen ticket from the floor, Charles melds into her mind, feels the impression of the paper ticket on his hand.

"The girl I grew up with wasn't capable of killing" he says, looking straight at Raven. "She was good, fair, full of compassion."

For a moment, Raven says nothing, merely meets his gaze through his borrowed eyes.

"I have compassion" she says. "Just not for Trask. He's murdered too many of us."

The she snatches her tickets back and walks past him. Deflated, he pulls back.

"Shut her down, Charles" Logan says behind him, behind his physical body. "Get in her head."

"She's not letting me in" he says, not wanting to explain that he once promised that he would never listen in on her thoughts, never control her mind, and that it is a promise he still cannot bring himself to break. Then he adds, more truthfully, "I'm barely holding on. I'm not strong enough yet."

Still, he braces himself and decides to try another approach.

He is not entering her mind, strictly speaking. Neither does he assume someone else's body. He simply – or not so simply, it is pulling on every fiber of his being to do so – projects himself to her mind. If it works, she should be the only one to see him, see the image of him – an image she herself projects out of his gentle prodding.

"I know what Trask has done" he says, feeling the weight of the words as he speaks them, thinks them at her over the thousands of miles between them, "but killing him will not bring them back. It will set you on a path from which there is no return. An endless cycle of killing. Us and them, until there is nothing left."

He has seen it. His own self, in another time and place, has shown it to him. Logan has shown it to him, and the knowledge of that future pushes him beyond his limits.

"But we can stop it, right now, you and I. You just have to come home."

"I have to?" she says, shaking her head. "You haven't changed at all, Charles. Like I said, I know exactly what I have to do."

And then she pushes him away, walks through him as if he was never there, and he lets go. He returns back to Cerebro and pulls the helmet off with a sigh, feeling only now the salt tinge of tears in his eyes.

"Where is she?" Logan asks him.

"She's in an airport" he replies, laughing slightly as he wipes at his eyes, "boarding a plane."

"A plane to where?"

He remembers all too well.

"Washington D.C."

It could have been home, but it is not. They all know it is not.

"Guys…" Hank's voice, nervous. "There's something I need to show you."

Neither Charles nor Logan says anything at first. Then Charles sighs and puts his hand down on the joystick.

"Alright. Lead the way, Hank."

They leave the Cerebro chamber and the basement, a silent four-minute journey to one of Hank's rooms. Not the laboratory, but another room, more cramped, which appears to be filled with radio and television equipment, as far as Charles can tell.

"I set the system I designed to record any news about Paris over all three networks, and PBS" Hank says as he enters the room and sits down in front of one of the screens.

"All three? Wow."

Logan is clearly not impressed, but Hank fails to catch on to that.

"Yes. And PBS. Look what I found."

It is a newscast, and it is not good news.

"Raven doesn't realize that if she kills Trask at an event like that, with the whole world watching…"

"Then I came a long way for nothing" Logan interrupts him solemnly.

"And there's more bad news" Hank adds to their collective burden. "I saw in a report, they found traces of her blood in Paris. For all we know, they already have her DNA, which is all they'd need."

"To create the sentinels of the future" Logan concludes, and they all silence.

"You know…" Hank says after a few moments, "there's a theory in quantum physics that time is immutable. It's like a river, you can throw a pebble into it and create a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river… just keeps flowing in the same direction."

"What are you trying to say?" Logan's question reaches Charles' ears as if through a heavy fog, sounds distant and strange, and that same effect seems to linger on Hank's words as he answers:

"What I'm saying is… what if the war is inevitable? What if she's meant to kill Trask? What if this is just simply who she is?"

Charles can hardly believe the words he is hearing, even more so because there is another voice whispering to him, in the back of his mind. His own voice.

"Just because someone stumbles, loses their way, doesn't mean they're lost forever." He chuckles, realizing he has spoken the words out loud, and looks up at Hank. "No, I don't believe that theory, Hank. And I cannot believe that that is who she is. Ready the plane. We're going to Washington."

* * *

Once again they board the plane, though thankfully this time for rather a short journey. Hank carries him up the short staircase and puts him into one of the armchairs where he will remain during the trip – the cabin aisle too narrow even for the smaller wheelchair they brought along for the ride. It makes him almost grateful that Erik is not present, though to be completely honest, he would rather have Erik here by his side than somewhere out there, probably working on some scheme that will thwart any hope for peace.

As they glide above the clouds, Logan gives him an odd look.

"You all right?" he asks, and Charles stops kneading his unfeeling legs.

"Getting there" he replies. It is true.

Logan sighs and struggles a while before any more words come out.

"Whatever happens today, I need you to promise me something. You've looked into my mind and you've seen a lot of bad, but you've seen the good, too."

Logan nods at him slightly, as if he knows this to be true but wants Charles to acknowledge it all the same. Charles finds himself unable to respond at all. He saw it, yes, and he remembers it, in a sense. Not every detail and not in any semblance of an order, and he has no desire to revisit those memories. But he can listen to what Logan has to say.

"The X-Men. Promise me you'll find us. Use your power, bring us together. Guide us. Lead us."

Charles swallows, discomforted by the faith and trust Logan is now putting in him, in his ability to do all those things that Logan already knows he has done, but that he himself has a hard time imagining doing. Especially now. Especially since they are trying to change the future.

"Storm. Scott. Jean. Remember those names. There are so many of us. We will need you, Professor."

"I'll… do my best."

"Your best is enough. Trust me."

He nods slightly, feeling the weight of yet another promise sink in. As he turns to look out the window, he repeats those names to himself, dedicating them to memory. _Storm. Scott. Jean. Storm, Scott, Jean. And Logan._

The rest of the flight passes by quietly and they touch ground on a small airfield just outside of D.C., scramble into yet another rental car which has appeared by Hank's almost magical organizational skills. It feels like déjà vu, since it was only three days ago that they drove down just this highway, in search of Peter Maximoff, on their way to the Pentagon, to Erik. And now, here they are again, on their way to yet another high-profile place, but this time, Charles hopes fervently that they will not encounter Erik.

_Please, please let him be somewhere else_, he thinks as he maneuvers himself from the car into the wheelchair and lets Hank roll him toward the entrance to the newly erected outdoor stage. There are hundreds of people moving toward the small secluded space on the lawn, security personnel, camera crews, politicians and businessmen taking their place in the spectacle. No sight of either Erik or Raven though, not that that is in any way reassuring.

"Can I see your invitations, please?" a security guard asks as his wheelchair beeps is way through the metal detector, and he obliges, naturally, with two fingers to his temple – not quite trusting his powers just yet.

"Yes, you may" he replies. "These two are with me."

"Go on then" the guard says, yielding to the suggestion without any resistance.

"Thank you." He takes hold of the wheels, and puts the chair into motion, assisting Hank as the uneven lawn is not ideal for this mode of transport. That is why it takes him a few seconds to realize that Logan is not with them – not due to any failing on Charles' part though, he is pleased to note. "Logan!"

Logan catches up with them and they take place in the throng of people. The whole shebang is about to get started and he opens his mind to all the people walking and watching, chattering and laughing around them, but not one of them pings on his radar.

"I haven't found her yet" he informs Logan and Hank, "but she has to be here."

From the speakers mounted on the temporary walls, the cheerfully proud music is accompanied by a voice announcing the President. The man comes onto the stage as the masses cheer and clap their hands, brass music enhancing the common feeling of patriotism stemming from the striped red, white and blue decorations surrounding the stage and audience. Charles pays little attention to the man's speech, although he picks up on the words 'threat' and 'mutants' without effort, and focuses on searching the minds of the audience instead. Their individual thoughts are all turned on the speech, with very few exceptions, which makes one mind stand out in particular.

_This is for you, brothers and sisters._

"Raven?"

He hears it as clearly as if she had spoken the words straight into his ear, and though this is breaking a twenty-year-old promise, there is no other way. He takes over her body, freezes it just as she reaches for a gun and turns to the stage.

"I have her" he says out loud for Hank's and Logan's benefit, pointing at her even as she tells him to let her go. "There. You see? Secret Serviceman, left of the stage."

"Got him" Logan mumbles in affirmation.

"Go."

They do and he remains where he is, focusing on keeping her where she is, out of causing danger.

_Raven, please, listen to me,_ he thinks at her. _We have been given a second chance to define who we are. Don't do this._

Something is wrong, he can catch that from the crowd. The pride and the sense of shared achievement is still there but it is mingled with something else now, apprehension and weariness. All of a sudden, shots are fired and all around him, people scream and run for cover. He loses his concentration, loses his hold and Raven, and that is all she needs.

He looks up, sees the eight enormous robots floating in the air, firing at politicians and civilians alike, targeting humans, and he knows that this is not Trask's doing.

"ERIK!" he shouts though the man is not there to hear it under the noise of fear and gunfire and cars exploding.

That is when he sees it.

Ominous like a stormcloud on a summer day, floating through the air, it rolls in over them: a stadium, bits and pieces falling off of it as it closes in on them and in the middle of it, as if summoned by Charles' scream, cape flowing in the wind – Erik.

Charles' heart thumps worryingly in his chest at the sight, then nearly stops as he realizes that the debris falling down from the sky is hardly bits and pieces: it is stands and seats, concrete and rebars and steel beams, and it is all raining down on the ground, _on him_. He throws himself on the ground, his eyes closed in prayer as the debris crashes onto the ground over him.


	10. Chapter 10

He cannot believe he is not dead.

But death is supposed to be the relief of bodily discomfort and right now, he is in a lot of discomfort, so alas, he is not dead. His head is throbbing and he can feel his blood oozing from a wound on his forehead, hot and burning as it trickles down his face. Throwing himself from the wheelchair has landed him on something other than grass, something sharply biting its way into his back, and his left arm is squashed against his chest by a steel construction. For the first time perhaps ever, he is happy that he cannot feel his legs.

Vaguely he becomes aware of the sound of more gunfire, of electricity hissing and Hank shouting, then of metal creaking and cringing. Then silence, followed by the eerie sound of guns cocking themselves.

Then, Erik's voice, loud and clear.

"You built these weapons to destroy us. Why?"

No one answers. Whoever Erik is talking to, they know as well as Charles does that the answer is not theirs to give. But they know it, just as well as Charles does. Just as well as Erik does.

"Because you are afraid of our gifts. Because we are different. Humanity has always feared that which is different."

There is a sadness to Erik's voice, an unmistakable grief, and Charles knows it only too well. Knows its origins and its power, and can only imagine how much it must have grown during these past ten years.

"Well, I am here to tell you, to tell the world, you are right to fear us. We are the future. We are the ones who will inherit this earth! And anyone who stands in our way will suffer the same fate as these men you see before you."

It is a great speech, Charles has to admit, if one ignores its objective. Erik always had a way with words, a way to shape them so that anyone who heard him speak would be touched to the core of their being and remember the words forever. But who is he addressing now? Clearly not the men he is holding at gunpoint, no, because he is making an example out of them.

Tentatively, he reaches out with his mind and he sees them, through their eyes – military men, some politicians, Trask and the man who was with him in Paris, the President of course. And there is also Raven's mind, but he steers clear of it, for now, instead listening in on the men around her. They are afraid, that much is obvious, but not only for Erik, he understands, but for the world's opinion of them. _What will they think_, they wonder, even as their hearts beat wildly in their chests, _what will the world think about us now?_

As if he, too, had read their minds, Erik continues his speech.

"Today was meant to be a display of your power. Instead I give you a glimpse of the devastation my race can unleash upon yours. Let this be a warning to the world. And to my mutant brothers and sisters out there, I say this: No more hiding. No more suffering. You have lived in the shadows in shame and fear for too long."

_No more hiding._ That is what he said then, too. That time, Charles heard it through a wall of pain shooting through his body, much like it does now. That time, Erik reached out to Raven: now he reaches out to the world.

"Come out" Erik says, and it is a whisper, a plea, a promise. "Join me. Fight together in a brotherhood of _our_ kind. A new tomorrow that starts today."

All is quiet. The world is quiet.

Charles fights against the heavy steel pressing down on him, but it is futile. He feels like a worm, wriggling on a hook. So many people, so close, and not one of them aware that he is there. Not even Erik, whose presence is like a void among the minds out there. Charles always hated that helmet.

Something happens then, out of sight for him but not out of earshot.

"I said, stand down!" the voice, unmistakably, belonging to the President himself. "You want to make a statement? Kill me. Fine. But spare everyone else."

There is a rumble of alarm and wonder among the other men, and Charles picks up on their errant thoughts of confusion.

"Very heroic, mister President" comes Erik's voice, smooth but hard as steel. "But you had no intention of sparing any of us. The future of our species begins now."

Charles gets the picture a moment too late, catching the impression of Raven's mind only as she raises her hand and pulls the trigger. He can hear Erik's gasp and the sound of objects falling to the ground – guns, he suspects – machines shutting down, and his heart nearly stops.

_Erik!_

"You used to be a better shot."

_Oh, Erik…_

"Trust me, I still am."

With an effort, Charles pushes himself through the minds of the men assembled, sees Raven take out Erik and as she turns on the humans, he freezes them. Again, he projects himself to her, unable to bring himself to take control over her body again, but she is having none of it.

"Get out of my head Charles!"

"Raven…" he pleads, "please, do not make us the enemy today."

"Look around you, we already are!"

"Not all of us. All you've done so far, is save the lives of these men. You can show them a better path."

He can see her struggling, just like he sees Hank hovering above him, trying but failing to release him from the debris.

"Shut her down, Charles" Hank is saying to him, but Charles shakes his head. Finally, he knows what to say.

_Guide us_, Logan asked him.

"I've been trying to control you ever since the day we met, and look where that's got us… Everything that happens now is in your hands. I have faith in you, Raven."

This is her choice. All he has been trying to do is get her to choose what he wants, what he would choose, but that is not the right way. Whatever future they have ahead of them, it is for her to decide. It has always been her decision, and he will not, cannot, take it away from her.

He lets go of her, but holds on to Trask who is standing in front of her. Not taking over him, no, merely tagging along, seeing what he sees – Raven, proud and strong, a wave of admiration and, surprisingly, respect emanating from Trask's mind. Her hand is shaking, her resolve wavering – and then she lets her gun fall.

* * *

Charles returns to the solace of his own mind with a groan: his tense muscles relaxing and giving him a painful reminder of the fact that he is being slowly crushed to death. He exhales, and hears Raven's voice again, high and clear.

"He's all yours, Charles."

And there it is, Erik's mind exposed to him, and he seizes upon it, entering the long-lost but achingly familiar mind without a second to lose, gets Erik up on his feet and clearing the steel away, releasing Charles' body from its prison. Hank grabs hold of him, dragging him to his feet, and he lets go of Erik's mind, trying not to see, not to feel, all that is there.

Erik, only yards away, look at him as if waking from a dream. He glances at his helmet, that awful, hateful thing, and then at Charles again, who is hanging limply at Hank's shoulder.

"If you let them have me", Erik says, "I'm as good as dead. You know that."

"I know."

There are other things to say, things that need to be said, but this is not the time or the place. That time and place will come, one day, but for now… Erik opens his mind to him, directs it at him, and almost smiles.

"Goodbye, old friend."

"Goodbye, Erik."

Erik looks at Raven then, and Charles thinks that there, too, a farewell is taking place, though unspoken. Moments later, Erik levitates himself off the ground and away, his helmet still on the ground. Raven looks at him then, or rather, at Hank. They too speak only with their eyes, a communication that says more than words could, and she leaves.

"Are you sure you should let them go?" Hank asks, holding his limp, bleeding body upright, and as Charles answers him with words, he also sends those words to the minds making their way far away from him.

"Yes. I have hope for them. There's going to be a time, Hank, when we are all together."

"What about Logan?"

He does not answer immediately, but sends his mind out to roam. There is no ping, no sense of Logan anywhere out there, but that might be due to exhaustion.

"I don't know" he says. "I guess from now on, we can only hope that we have thrown enough pebbles in the river to make it change its course."

"I guess" Hank says, though clearly not convinced.

"Now, if you don't mind, Hank… I would like to go home."

"Home?"

"Yes. We have a lot of work to do if we're to get the school running again." Hank does not answer, not for several moments, and rather annoyed at this, Charles turns to look at him. "What?"

"Just… Nothing. Professor."

He smiles at Hank. For all that his legs are useless pieces of flesh and bone, and his ribs bruised and his face covered in concrete dust and blood, not to mention the murderous headache torturing his mind – he is getting there. Not just to being all right, but to being… himself. The man he once thought he was, and the man Logan knew that he became.

Now, it is time to become that man, to do the things he has promised to do and to gather those mutants that he can. Teach them, guide them, and help them become what they are meant to be. _Storm, Scott, Jean. Logan._

And he hopes, hopes now in a way that has not felt hope in years, that one day, Raven and Erik will come back. It does not matter now whether it will be a year from now, or five or ten or twenty, because he knows now that even during the worst possible circumstances, they united. It might have taken them fifty years, but they did it, and with today's events, hopefully circumstances will never be that bad.

Knowing this, he can wait, wait and work for the best future possible. And then, with luck, he can become the man he saw, and perhaps, one day, Erik will be by his side again.

* * *

**A/N:** So this is it. While I'm sorry to leave both Erik and Charles, and you guys, hanging like this, remember that we still have at least one more movie to look forward to, and lots of things can happen then! Charles and Erik's story is far from over and I'm happy that you have followed them and me this far. I'll try and see if perhaps there can be a companion fic or two while we all wait, so please, feel free to follow me here on FFN to be alerted whenever I upload something new. And please, if you've enjoyed this story, leave a word or two in the reviews, it'll make my day!


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